“It’s not that bad,” I protested.
Max had always had the tendency to exaggerate danger, especially if it was anywhere near me. I wondered what that meant.
“You can affordChanel,” he argued, with a finger aimed accusingly at the coat rack beside him, “but you can’t afford a decent security system?”
What?My new bag? What did my new bag have to do with anything?
“It’s vintage,” I corrected with a frown, stung by his accusation.
“So what?” he countered.
“Sowhat?” My voice oozed with sarcasm. “VintageChanel.”
“What’s the difference?” He finally turned to face me completely. “The price?”
“Bingo,” I said with a smile. “Andit’s handmade.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Doubtful,” he droned on. “I saw a woman down the street with one just like it.”
“Down the street?” I scoffed. “Are you sure? Maybe it was a similar style, but this is a classic double flap, with the gold chain and the ...” My voice trailed off as I passed Max, pushing him to the side to reach for it. My fingers grazed the bag. “Hold on,” I mumbled, unzipping the inner compartment. Hidden deep inthe pockets was a small, stitched-in label. It was faded, but the barely-there gold lettering was unmistakable. “Chanel, Paris, 1986.” I sighed, relieved. “See?”
He watched me. He blinked. The poor man, he wassoconfused. He leaned in, squinting at the label, then studied me for a long moment. “You sure about that?” he asked.
“Positive,” I declared. This bag wasn’t just a splurge. “Besides,” I added, “even if there were another one down the street, mine would still be unique. After all, it belongs to me.”
He chuckled quietly. The corners of his eyes crinkled like crow’s feet. They made him look dreamy, but I’d never let him know that. Instead, I rolled my eyes each time.
“You are an expensive woman, aren’t you?”
“Call it what you want. I have taste.”
He nodded. “I see. Well, a woman with taste is likely to become a victim if she continues to keep her windows open at night, especially with a ‘Chanel, Paris, 1986’ purse,witha classic double flap and the gold chain, instead of a security system?—”
“It’s safe, Max. You’re just being a ridiculous man.”
He squinted when he saw the snack basket I kept near the couch.
“My apartment isn’t that bad,” I said, trying to remind myself as well.
Max’s brow furrowed in concern as he looked at the window. He cleared his throat, the sound hitched with hesitation. “From the sidewalk, I’d be able to see your shower,” he said, pointing to the window facing the street.
He sounded worried, as if he were afraid someone would hurt me. I liked how he cared. Ofcoursehe’d use his job as an excuse for caring about my protection, but I knew deep down there was a part of him that enjoyed watching me.
“And how do you know that? Experience?” I arched an eyebrow.
His jaw clenched, and he took a deep breath in. Had I struck a nerve? Now, what nerve could that be? Was it my flirting?
Interesting . . .
“No jokes,” he snapped, his voice final. “None like that. This is my job, and I take it seriously. My only concern is your safety. Jokes and personal matters are off-limits.”
Who said anything about a joke? Not me.
I stood there bored out of my mind. “I think you’re too serious sometimes.”
“You think I’m too serious?”
“Yes,” I admitted, tilting my head playfully. I watched him walk toward the windows and lock every single one of them. “Overprotective too.”
